


A winter's tale

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of gross monster goo, Mild Hypotermia, Protective Jaskier, Self-Indulgent, Slightly whumpy if you squint hard enough, Vulnerable Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: “The witcher! He’s fallen through the ice!”Jaskier puts his lute aside immediately. A handful of beats ago, a dead monster was lying at the feet of a proud, victorious witcher on the frozen surface of the lake, but now there’s just a deep hole with a jagged rim and a hundred microscopic creaks that radiate from its center all the way to the rocky shore.No Geralt. Just a hole.The gathered townsfolk hold their breaths, squinting in the chilly air for a sign of life – possibly from the witcher, not from the hideous beast that has reduced the population of the town dramatically in the span of a few months. As much as he’s well aware that Geralt’s body can tolerate the piercing cold way much better than that of a non- mutated human being, Jaskier does the same, without even realizing he’s holding his breath too.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 509





	A winter's tale

The beast – Jaskier doesn’t know what the hideous thing is and, frankly, he doesn’t really care about learning names and specificities of each monster that Geralt kills, songs aren’t made for such an useless degree of reality – lets out a horrible shriek as it dies, the witcher’s silver sword protruding from a gash in what it appears to be its horrifically deformed head – or whatever may that bulge be, Jaskier isn’t interested in monster anatomy either.

It’s when he’s looking away, taking his time to tune his lute so he can start strumming the well-known notes of “Toss a coin to your witcher”, that the old woman all clad in black screams.

“The witcher! He’s fallen through the ice!”

Jaskier puts his lute aside immediately. A handful of beats ago, a dead monster was lying at the feet of a proud, victorious witcher on the frozen surface of the lake, but now there’s just a deep hole with a jagged rim and a hundred microscopic creaks that radiate from its center all the way to the rocky shore.

No Geralt. Just a hole.

The gathered townsfolk hold their breaths, squinting in the chilly air for a sign of life – possibly from the witcher, not from the hideous beast that has reduced the population of the town dramatically in the span of a few months. As much as he’s well aware that Geralt’s body can tolerate the piercing cold way much better than that of a non- mutated human being, Jaskier does the same, without even realizing he’s holding his breath too.

The witcher’s bath in the unforgiving, frozen waters lasts a beat too long for him not to feel his insides churn with concern, but he’s becoming better and better at concealing it under a thick armor of made-up confidence and bravado.

“Despair not, good people!”, he declaims, “For Geralt of Rivia can’t be defeated by an icy bath!”

He knows better he’d be the only one to despair, if Geralt was to die. People tend not to like witchers, and if witchers die on a job the contractors get to keep their coin. Either way, it’s a win-win for them.

He shouldn’t really think about that so, to distract himself from the possibility, he gets back to his precious instrument.

 _He’ll be fine_ , he thinks, numb fingers struggling to adjust the keys of his lute. _He’s fine._

He plans to count to ten: if Geralt doesn’t pop out of the water then, he’ll run to the rescue, even if he has never rescued anybody from drowning before - let alone from drowning in a frozen lake! – and he’ll have to rely solely on improvisation. He’s good at it, at least, part of his profession depends on how good and convincingly he’s able to improvise. If he’ll succeeds, he’ll write a song about a brave bard saving the old, grumpy witcher from a certain death, but in the meantime he’s got to count.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Four…_

The crowd cheers. Someone claps. A dwarf blows inside a horn, its cavernous sound spreding through the woods, through the entire valley. Jaskier smiles and, when Geralt starts dragging his feet towards the cheerful crowd, he starts singing.

***

The inn is a smoky, dirty place no bigger than the average-sized farm. Long tables made out of sturdy, cheap oak make the room look even smaller, claustrophobic. The air is filled with the stench of sweat, rotting wood, bodily fluids and burnt dusty wax – no wonder why Geralt, with his enhanced sense of smell, has decided to go straight to bed instead of joining the party.

People dance, they dance and sing and celebrate the end of a nightmare with loud toasting and drunken declarations; Jaskier has already played his part in this impromptu shindig, if only to give Geralt a break from his loud mouth and clinginess – which is his own personal way of saying _“I thought I was going to lose you”_ without actually voicing it – but now he’s starting to doze off himself. A guy with a flute jumps on a table and starts playing an allegro con brio that’s so off tune Jaskier can’t help but thinking about it as _pure agony_ – and that’s the kindest way in which he can describe it. Perhaps, it’s the sign he was looking for to leave on the sly and finally collapse face-first on the bed, better between Geralt’s ridiculously muscular arms.

The thought does still send sparks throughout his whole body, even if he and Geralt have started sleeping together a long time ago – this can only mean that the butterflies in his stomach haven’t died yet, so his art is safe for now: to compose ballads that can truly touch the hearts of many, a poet should always be in love.

Downing the remains of his watery ale, Jaskier thinks that _he is, he is, oh, he is still madly in love._

 _Could be the beginning of a new ballad_ , he thinks with a grin. Already focused on that, he starts humming its possible tune while climbing the short row of stairs to his and Geralt’s shared room. The inn has got only four rooms…three of which are vacant.

He’s still grinning when he reaches for the unsteady doorknob, but it fades the exact moment he enters the minuscule bedroom and an unsettling feeling grips at his throat.

“For fuck’s sake”, he groans, “I have told them to light up the fireplace!”

The only source that provides a dim light to the room is a half-consumed tallow candle burning in what appears to be the bottom of a broken cup. Geralt, a very cold and very shivering Geralt, is curled up in a ball under a pile of old and tattered woolen blankets, the sound of his teeth chattering making Jaskier’s stomach sink.

“Geralt?”, he calls quietly, trying his best not to sound too worried. Geralt feels terribly guilty when he makes him worry, and the last thing Jaskier wants now is for Geralt to feel guilty.

The witcher’s feeble answer comes through his gritted teeth.

“I’m here”, he stutters, watching as the bard fumbles with steel and flint to light up some almost consumed sticks inside the fireplace.

When the first feeble flame bursts to life, Jaskier rushes to the bed, trying to provide some heat by rubbing his hands very fast over the cocoon of moth-eaten blankets, which feel as cold as if they’ve been hanged outside all night long. As cliché as it sounds, it doesn’t work.

“You should…”, Geralt says, “you should get under the blankets with me. Your body heat should be enough to…”

Jaskier frowns. The witcher looks like he’s on the brink of death, face sickly pale and lips even paler, and yet he’s got the nerve to talk utter nonsense that dangerously sound like a sexual innuendo. Not that Jaskier minds it, he likes sex and sex with Geralt even more, but…well, not now. Not until he’s sure Geralt is all right.

A faint and frankly dumb laugh escapes his lips.

“I don’t think that’s the right time for a quickie, Geralt. I’m not kidding.”

The witcher casts him a dirty look, the one Jaskier calls “the scary witchy-witcher face”. He’s definitely not amused.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you said I have to tuck inside the blankets and provide you with body heat. You started it”, he indignantly claims. Geralt face turns into “the scarier witchy-witcher face”, though he’s very well aware of the fact that Jaskier has never been intimidated by his proverbial looks that could kill, nor he’ll ever be.

“I’m literally freezing, Jaskier. A quickie is the last thing I want. I just need…warmth. Or else, I’m afraid you’ll have to stick to another witcher for your catchy songs…good luck finding one, nowadays.”

Jaskier may have, again, underestimated the gravity of the situation. Or, from another perspective, overestimated how much time can a witcher last when he’s hypotermic – it doesn’t matter, though. He’s very quick at getting out of his colorful doublet and peel away his dirty shirt that has seen better days, trying to make amends for his carelessness.

Careful not to expose the witcher’s naked body to the harsh air coming from the creaks in the wooden walls and door, the bard tucks himself under the blankets, whose foul smell could compete with the sour stink of a decomposing carcass in the underbrush, and cradles Geralt in his arms.

He doesn’t remember a time the witcher has let him do that without complaining, so he’s going to savor the moment, though his face, buried in his chest, feels too cold to the touch and his breath is ragged while tickling against his skin.

He rubs the other man’s back the same way he has done with the cocoon of blankets, only gentler this time, until his hands burn and Geralt’s breath becomes steady, his temperature starting to slowly rise to a normal level. He wonders what the average core temperature of a witcher is, but he doesn’t ask – he’ll have plenty of time tomorrow or the day after to pester him with his silly questions.

He doesn’t stop shivering, though.

The bard tightens his arms around him instinctively and hopes it’d be enough.

***

The sun creeps sheepishly through the dusty curtains when Jaskier cracks his eyes open and whimpers, not ready yet to face another day.

He has barely slept. He has spent the night holding Geralt until the heat inside their makeshift blanket nest has become unbearable, stroking his hair and humming soothing tunes whenever he squirmed in his sleep, then he has succumbed to a deep, dreamless slumber sometime before dawn, he doesn’t know when exactly.

What he knows is that he’s tired, but the sun is relentlessly flooding inside and this can only mean he’ll have to get up eventually, sooner or later. The later, the better, by the way.

Geralt’s voice is huskier than ever, when he speaks. His face, that beautifully chiseled masterpiece of a face, is still buried into Jaskier’s chest, and he shows no signs of wanting to move away, even now that he’s fully restored, warm and rested.

“We should have spent the winter in Kaer Morhen”, he mutters, placing a soft and unexpected kiss right over the bard’s heart. Jaskier scoffs; Geralt would never let anyone near Kaer Morhen, let alone his loud companion and his annoying lute.

_Yet._

He feels a surge of heat turn his cheeks pink. The last time he’s blushed like this, he was losing his virginity long before he had reached the appropriate age, to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, which was slightly older and not a virgin anymore…at all.

“Sorry, what?”

Geralt’s lips curl into a small smile against his flushed skin. There’s another kiss, and it lingers longer on the soft spot between his ribs.

“I said that the next winter, we’re going to Kaer Morhen. I’ve had enough of frozen lakes for a while.”

Jaskier’s fingertips dig into the witcher’s scalp, massaging gently and eliciting a soft, appreciative groan in response. He’ll ask the sweet maid downstairs for a bath, later. Geralt’s hair are still caked in mud and, for how gross it seems, there may be guts or brains of the beast he has slayed smeared into his locks. Not to mention the fact that after having slept under something like seven blankets for an entire night, they don’t smell exactly like lilies and violets. For the moment, though, he doesn’t feel like leaving – and he takes he won’t for the next couple of hours or so.

“Ah. Me too”, he idly replies, detangling Geralt’s hair with care. A contented silence falls between the two men and, surprisingly enough, it’s still Geralt the one who breaks it.

“You haven’t told me if you want to go to Kaer Morhen with me, the next winter…”

Jaskier sighs.

_Oh, Geralt. Don’t you know that I’ll go to the bloody wherever that you want, if we’re together?_

“Do you really need me to tell you that I’ll even walk the hells barefoot, if you asked me too?”

The witcher shrugs.

“No”, he says. “But I don’t want to force my choices on you.”

The bard shakes his head.

“I’d be delighted to see Kaer Morhen, Geralt”, he whispers.

Then, he gets back at combing his hair, basking in the sweet sounds coming from his lips.

 _Could be good for a song_ , he thinks. And that’s the last straight thought he’s able to produce before falling, finally, asleep.


End file.
